Merci Mon Chere
by Clara Fonteyn
Summary: Luke, a writer struggling with writer's block, tries to find refuge in Paris. One day in the park...can he find his muse? ThaliaXLuke. Oneshot. Complete.


I was suddenly awoken by a blaring car horn nine stories beneath me. My heart was pounding in my chest, showing no signs of stopping. Was it a nightmare that caused this swell of panic to overcome me? I couldn't remember. I curled my knees up to my chest, grabbing a handful of blanket in my hand. I was close to tears, and so frustrated with myself. It was times like this I wanted someone. I needed someone.

The room was very dark, not even the bright lights from the street carried up this far. Knowing that sleep would not come again for a long time, I pulled the ratty blanket off of myself. The cold hit me, causing my body to quiver. Damn these Parisian winters. This was your idea, remember, Luke? You could go home anytime you want.

Grabbing my sweater of the floor, I took the few steps from my bed to my make-shift kitchen, turning the water on. Maybe some warm milk would help; it always did when I was younger. As I set the milk in the microwave, I walked over to my window and peered down to the city below me. Even after over a year here, the sight of Paris still took my breath away, even at night. My eyes needed a few minutes to adjust to all the lights below me. The Champs-Elysees was stretched out below me, many cars zooming in and out even at this hour.

Letting out a loud sigh, I drank my milk, feeling the warm liquid warm up my entire body. I sat down on my bed, and became lost in my own thoughts. It certainly was a dangerous place to be; I was always over thinking things. I tried to figure out my plan for the day, which would be arriving in a few hours. I needed to write, but nothing was coming out. Its as though my brain has run dry. And, then, I remembered that is why I had come to Paris in the first place. I had this crazy idea that somehow being in a city with so much history, life, and culture would help the dark cloud of writers block that has been looming over me for months.

After three incredibly successful novels, my editor was fine with letting me go where ever I wanted, as long a she got her chapters on time. Why did everything just come to a screeching halt like that? Nothing had changed in my life. I was simply out of inspiration. Hell, why not go to Paris? And I did. That worked for a while. I had finished half of my next book in the time that I have been here. But, now, I find my self growing lonely and maybe even a tad depressed, which isn't like me at all. When I look into the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Maybe it was time to go home.

I pulled my computer out from under my bed, wanting to check today's weather. I was itching to go to the park, sometimes the fresh air helped cleanse my mind a bit. And, to my luck, I saw it was going to be a beautiful day. Sleep must have come at some point, since the morning sun heating up my apartment awoke me. I still felt extremely tired, and I had already pretty much ruled out getting any work done today. What a shocker. I knew I had to try though.

I grabbed my old backpack that I have had since high school, and packed up my laptop and a notebook and pen, for sometimes ideas come more freely when I am writing then out longhand. At the moment, part of me was wondering why I even try anymore. This novel would never get done; I really should have just capped off my career at three books. Why did I even give in to my editors constant nagging? As I thought about it...I realized I didn't have anything better to do with my life. It scared me sometimes to think about what I would do after this book is finished (that is, if I _can_ finish it).

I pushed that all to the back of my mind as I trudged out the door. The rotten smell of my hallway certainly didn't help at all. The stain filled brown walls looked like they had never been painted; I couldn't even imagine what was all over them. Gross. Shaking my head, I started to descend the nine flights of stairs. I remembered my first month here; my legs were constantly burning. These stairs were nothing to me now, and I was grateful for the workout.

Autumn was just around the corner, but it was still pleasantly warm out. The walk to the park was only a few minutes, that was one great thing about my apartment; it was right in the heart of Paris. The vibrant blue sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. The bright midday sun was shining down on me; the heat of the sun warmed my skin up.

When I arrived at the park, I took my usual spot underneath a large Oak tree. It was probably the biggest one in the park, and easily a hundred years old. The branches fanned out nicely, provided shade, and a cooling off from the sun. I could work on my laptop here, with out the glare from the sun interfering. I leaned up against the trunk of the tree; it fit the curve of my back perfectly. While my computer was booting up, I looked lazily around the park.

This was always an entertaining thing to do. There were students I could tell, who were stretched out like me, computers and books at hand. Couples were scattered around, becoming better acquainted with each other (if you know what I mean). I turned away from them immediately, a knot forming in my stomach. I was jealous, and I wasn't ashamed to admit it.

I pulled open the chapter I was working on, still discouraged that I would get anything done today. My fingers were poised on the keys, ready to type. Ha! Nothing came. No thoughts. No strike of genius like I needed. The flashing bar on the screen was mocking me, just daring me to type something. Even my stupid computer knew I couldn't.

My eyes wandered back to the goings on in the park. Looking to my left, something -or rather someone- caught my eye. I must have looked like a complete fool, gaping at her with my mouth open. But at that moment, I didn't even care. She was gorgeous alright, the likes of which I had never seen before. Unlike me, she was sitting in the sun, and it threw a halo into her raven black hair. That was the first thing I noticed, especially since she kept running her fingers through it. Oh, I bet it was soft. She was reading a book, her face in deep concentration. Could she be a student? I wondered, my eyes wandering to the backpack sitting next to her.

I couldn't even put into words how good looking she was. This is like when you see a really good looking girl and you just start to wonder everything about him. That's what I was doing. So, as I was sitting there under my favorite tree, naming our children (Ricky Matthew and Maria Valerie, thanks for asking), something just clicked in my mind. I really didn't know what it was, but all of a sudden, I knew exactly how my story should end. The idea just came to me. Had this beautiful stranger freed me from my writers block?

The thought seemed crazy, but true. My mind kicked into overdrive, and I immediately started typing. The ideas just kept coming and coming; my fingers seemed to arrange all the words perfectly for me. This girl had worked some kind of spell on me. Okay, Luke...you need to stop reading Harry Potter so much. Every few paragraphs or so I just had to look up at her, and the feelings would increase when ever I did. I had a huge smile on my face, exuberant that I was actually writing! It truly was an amazing feeling.

After three long chapters, I pulled my hands off the keyboard to take a breath. I looked up at her again, to find her staring right back at me. After a sharp intake of breath, I realized that she probably wasn't even looking at me. She might have been looking just over my shoulder or something, it was really hard to tell. But, regardless, those two blue eyes seemed to bore two holes in me. I quickly looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, but I doubt she even noticed me. Whew. Wow. Ok.

I tried, I really did. But my efforts were in vain. I kept glancing up at her, for she seemed to be feeding my writing. It continued like this for another three hours. My heart would race when she would turn a page or scratch the back of her neck. I felt like a silly teenage girl, in love with someone I could never have.

After I finished my fifth chapter for the day, my neck and back had become stiff from sitting so long. Where had the time gone? The sun was getting low in the sky, and I felt the hunger growing in my stomach. And, then, for what seemed like the thousandth time today, I looked around, but she was gone. A knot formed in my stomach, one of loss. Ha, did I really expect her to hang around here, follow me home and then make out with me until the crack of dawn? Hmm...now that I think about it, yes! That would have been nice...

It was a bit sad, seeing just the empty patch of grass and not her slim figure, but I was still on a high from being so productive today. Even if I never saw her again (which was a definite possibility), just that memory of her, her face in my mind, I was sure would carry me through until I was finished this book. God, was I ever glad I went to the park today. And, with that smile still on my face, and those eyes fresh in my mind, I made my way back home.

The next morning, as I was laying in bed, I thought I might be a good idea to venture back to the park. I was trying not to get my hopes up at all that she would be there, but maybe just the essence of her would be. Less than ten minutes later, I was crossing the busy street, practically in a sprint to get to the park. So much for not getting my hopes up.

I threw my stuff down and looked towards that oh-so-familiar patch of grass, and I wasn't disappointed. There she was, but with no book today. Instead she sat on a small stool with an easel in front of him. Oh god, so she was a painter. That is so incredibly sexy. Again, she was deep in thought. I wondered what she was painting. Probably what was right in front of her, the park and the people in it. Was she in art school? Already an accomplished painter? More and more questions that I would never know the answer too. She simply was an enigma to me, maybe even a figment of my imagination. If that was the case, it seems I have a pretty over active imagination.

Oh, what news.

More aware of my movements than ever, I sat down, and began to write. Thankfully, things went, if possible, even better than yesterday. Today I was smart enough to bring some water and some food, in case this was another all day affair. And, I really hoped it would be.

The concentration on her face had almost turned into a look of pain. This intrigued me even more. I wanted so desperately to tap into that mind of her, and unlock the secrets that it held.

But, instead of doing that, I just wrote. And so we stayed like that, for the entire day. The hours ticked by, people came and went, but we remained, both steadfast in our work. She never faltered, never took a break, and neither did I. As the sun started to dip below the horizon, I packed up my things, incredibly satisfied with another days work. Wow, if I continued at this rate, I could be done by the end of the week! I would have never have thought such a thing could happen just even last week.

A muse! That's what she was to me. My muse. I had always wanted a muse...and I didn't even know a single thing about mine, except she is a painter (and inhumanly sexy). She looked like a native; it was blatantly obvious who was and who wasn't. I guess I would have to just keep showing up to the park, and pray that he would do the same.

On my way out of the park, I tried very smoothly to walk past her, wanting to be closer to her, wanting to develop some kind of invisible connection with her. I kept my distance as I walked pasted him, not wanting to break her unyielding concentration. I had to look! I just had to! Just as I pasted by him, I got the closest look at her perfect face as I've had so far. She truly was very handsome. She quickly jerked his head to look at me, her hand still holding the paintbrush which was in mid stroke. I tried to decipher that look on her face. I could tell she was still deep in thought, in concentration, but, her face seemed to almost relax a bit when his eyes met mine. Her eyes were so soft, and yet there was some kind of barrier she held up, not wanting to let anyone in. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks, so I quickly looked back down at the ground.

My heart didn't return till its normal pace until I was pulling open the door to my apartment. I slammed the door shut and rested my back against the door, taking a few more deep breaths. My mind was going a million miles an hour. Whew. This girl really knew how to make a guy ache for her. I climbed into bed, way too exhausted from the days work to even worry about eating anything.

Considering I had gone to bed at about seven the night before, I wasn't surprised that I woke up at five the next morning. It was still dark out, and my building was very quiet. My stomach grumbled. Why didn't I eat last night? Needing to stretch and wake up a bit, I decided to go down to the corner deli, which was open 24 hours.

After grabbing a hot sandwich, I made my way out of the deli. A flyer taped to the window caught my eye. It was her. That face that had been burned into my memory and my dreams for the last two days. I read the flyer, which confirmed my suspicions from the day before. She was a well known painter; she was having his pieces shown in a popular art gallery not too far from here tonight. Thalia. I had heard of her of course; I guess I just didn't put two and two together. I guess I knew where I was going to be tonight...

Smiling, I ran back up to my apartment and prepared myself for another hard, but enjoyable, days work. The day passed pretty much the same as yesterday, but today I had a whole new appreciation for her deep concentration. Could she be working on a painting for the gallery? No, surely she would have been done all of those by now, considering the exhibit was tonight. But, then again, what do I know about artists and the way they work?

Around midday, she left. My heart sank, but I figured she probably just had things to take care of for her big night tonight. What if I ran into her tonight? I smiled at the thought. Pfft, don't be silly. She probably doesn't even remember you. Hell, she might not have even noticed me these past few days. I tried to tell myself that was fine. She had provided me with so much, without even knowing it. I guess part of me wanted to get to know this mysterious woman that had made such an impact on me and my writing.

Not having any real incentive to stay late, I headed home to get ready for tonight. I took the time to do my hair, and put on make up, which I rarely ever did. The only really semi-formal clothing I had brought with me from home was a simple black jacket and black pants. It was all right, and I came to the conclusion that I really didn't look half bad tonight.

My heart was again pounding in my chest as I walked the three blocks to the art gallery. Deep breaths, I reminded myself. The place was crowded when I arrived, even though it was still early. There was a large picture of Thalia hanging on the window, which I couldn't help but stare at. Aren't you curious about her art? I questioned myself. Yes, I was. I really was. I hopped up the steps and made my way inside.

There were so many paintings; I wondered how long this exhibit had been planned for. I couldn't even imagine how long all of this must have taken. They were exquisite, to say the least. She seemed to paint every subject, there were many landscapes, groups of people, and even some still life. I was in awe of her talent. And she was so young too! Thalia was probably going to become one of those artists that you study in textbooks a hundred years from now. I tried to glance around for her, but I didn't spot her anywhere. That wild head of hair would have stuck out in this crowd.

I had stopped to look at one of her paintings more closely, when I heard a few women talking near by me.

"You know, I heard they were thinking about not even displaying her work," she said to her friend.

"Really? Why not?" She was shocked. As was I, so I listened closer.

"Apparently, all of her work just came to a screeching halt. She just stopped painting one day. I guess she lost her inspiration..." Boy, did I ever know how she felt. "I was talking to her publicist earlier, she had to finish one more painting before they could display them. Something about the rules of the gallery. She must have finished them up somehow," she finished with a sigh. Hmmm, Thalia seemed to be in the same position I was.

I made my way further into the gallery, and was never disappointed by what I saw. The back wall was empty though, from what I could see. There was a large crowd of people around it, so I assumed that there was _something_ there. I edged my way through the crowd, desperately wanting to see. I stopped short when my eyes fell upon the painting. I couldn't believe my eyes. This couldn't be right.

It was me. In the painting. _Me_, Luke Castellan in the _painting_ that all these people were surrounding. These past two days, Thalia had been painting _me_. Who would have ever have thought that I was worthy enough to be the subject of one of Thalia's paintings? And yet, there I was. She painted exactly what she saw. I was sitting underneath that magnificent oak tree, my laptop on my lap. I was looking off at something to my left, so you could see my profile, which she captured perfectly of course.

I must have been white as a ghost at that moment. I stepped a bit closer to look at the plaque beneath the painting.

_Merci, Mon Chere_

_Thalia_

_Oil on Canvas_

_September 1, 2010_

My thoughts quickly fluttered back to the years of French I had taken in high school and then in college. _Merci, Mon Chere_...Thank you, My Dear. Who was she thanking? Me? No. That's not possible. I had no idea what the title meant. At least it wasn't one of those lame _'Untitled'_ pieces. I hated when artists did that. Is it really that hard to think up a title? No.

I took one last look at the painting and rushed out of the gallery. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. A part of me felt almost...violated? No, that was way too strong of a word. I guess it made me a little uncomfortable that she was painting me without my knowledge. But then again, I felt extremely flattered, knowing that she deemed me worthy to be in her painting. It was all just so confusing. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all. I would have to meet her, have to talk to her, after this.

Not wanting to go home to my cramped apartment, I headed to the park, where I have had so many fond memories. I strolled through, nearing my tree. I looked down at where I usually sat and then to the middle of the park, where I spent so much time looking. No wonder I couldn't find him at the gallery. She was here, in the park. She was just standing there, looking up at the sky. Who knows what driving force propelled my body over to her. She heard me approaching, and looked down at me.

We both inhaled sharply; I was transfixed by her gaze; I don't know about her. Seeing her this close gave me a new appreciation for her eyes. I don't know why, I don't know what was so special about them. They were just…blue. But they were more than that. They reminded me of dark grey clounds-black clouds-in a churning blue sky. Our bodies were practically touching, and I could just feel the energy that surrounded us. So many unanswered questions, so much unknown between the both of us. But that didn't matter right now.

The moon glowed down on us, lighting up her face. She almost looked sad in a way, and I couldn't fathom why. I gazed down at her, almost as if to ask "Why?" She took her hand to touch my cheek; the warmth surprising me for a moment. She didn't answer my unspoken question; she simply said, "_Merci, mon chere._"

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Today, it's been a year since I put up my first story, _What Happens When Annabeth Falls Off A Cliff_.

Thank you so much to FilmyFurry, who has not failed to review every single chapter or story I have put up on this website. That has been, no doubt, quite a task. Love you! :D

Thanks also to Anna145 and to KarmaBear2050, who are totally awesome, put up with my stupidity, randomness, and bad Spanish. I love you guys, too! :D

To anyone who has read _WHWAFOAC! _and now this, please do review and tell me if I've gotten worse/better/whatever.

**xoxo Clara **

P.S. _Thalia_ was the name of one of the nine muses.

P.P.S. I'm sorry about the bold earlier. Blame the website, please. I hate it when that happens!


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